


Liability

by orphan_account



Category: Lorde (Musician), Music RPF, Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Liability, Original Fiction, Songfic, Story based on Song Lyrics, original - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 11:44:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10333925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Based on Lorde's new song Liability. A little bit sad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so don't be too harsh! Please comment, offer advice, etc.

It was winter, and I was behind the counter of a shop that smelled like ground up coffee beans and if you paid attention, the desperation of college students, when He floated in, swishing his limbs around in what he later described as a ‘one man flash mob.’  
I pointed out a ‘'mob’ couldn't consist of one man.  
He laughed.  
I laughed. He lit something inside of me.  
He offered to wait for me after my shift, and I accepted.  
I shouldn't have.  
Now, about a year later, He stood outside the coffee shop we met, the one that still smelled like ground up coffee beans and college student desperation, screaming at me.  
I shrunk into a shell that didn't exist for protection, as words like ‘liability’, ‘clingy’, and ‘poisonous’’ polluted the air around my head.  
I never went back there again.  
At least not with him.

Some years later, She knocked me off my ass. I could feel the New York concrete bite me through my jeans, as her profuse apologies vibrated through my eardrums.  
I looked at her, and her eyes burned through all the dead brambles in my heart.  
She jolted my world a few times after that.  
Maybe we should’ve kept it casual.  
Now, about 9 months later, She yelled too.  
Said we needed more love in our relationship.  
Said I was too dull, I was boring, I was stale, I was...  
I couldn’t listen anymore after the third adjective.  
We took slow dancing classes, and her hand brushed against skin that didn’t radiate anything anymore.  
I don’t slow dance anymore.  
At least not with Her.

A few months later, She was the lady doing my nails in some mall boutique that felt like wasted money.  
She brushed the tips of my fingers, and I could feel a spark that would’ve lit both our worlds on fire.  
We talked, giggled even.  
She asked for my number.  
I fled.  
This time.


End file.
